An Enemy’s Christmas

The snow fell in silent harmony, each flake a dancer in an endless waltz from the heavens. By evening, Castle Dale, Utah, lay cloaked in a pristine blanket of white, the stillness broken only by the faint crunch of tires as our old green Chevy Suburban crept down a narrow, snow-covered road.

Inside the car, the magic of the evening was lost on me. At twelve years old, I sat sullenly in the back seat, my arms crossed in defiance. I didn’t want to be there.

In the rear of the Suburban, boxes of Christmas presents—wrapped with care and stacked neatly in empty Sunkist orange crates—shifted softly with each turn. The sound, a gentle whisper against the car’s stillness, grated on my nerves. It was a quiet reminder of the task I resented so deeply.

“Why them?” I muttered under my breath, the words heavy with bitterness.

To my young mind, no reason could justify this errand. Just weeks earlier, the family to whom we were delivering these gifts had penned a cruel letter to the local newspaper, a public rebuke aimed squarely at my father. I had read it myself, the words slicing deep, leaving wounds that felt fresh even now.

“Mom, why would they write such mean things about Dad?” I had asked, my voice laced with confusion and anger.

“I don’t know, Isaac,” my mother had replied gently, her tone even but tinged with sadness. “Sometimes people lash out because they’re hurting. It doesn’t make it right, but it’s what they do.”

“Well, it’s dumb,” I snapped, the injustice stoking my indignation. “None of it was true.”

Anger felt justified, even righteous. It shielded me from the vulnerability of hurt. The very idea of extending kindness to those who had wounded us seemed absurd, even offensive.

Yet here we were, delivering Christmas to them.

As the car came to a stop, the silence outside was profound. Snow muffled the world, insulating it in a cocoon of stillness. My father’s voice broke the quiet.

“Daniel, Isaac,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I need you to carry these boxes to the porch, knock, and then leave quickly. Don’t let them see you.”

My brother and I exchanged wary glances. Doorbell-ditching was a skill we had perfected in the innocence of childhood mischief. But this—this felt different.

The cold bit at my cheeks as I stepped into the night, the boxes heavy in my arms. The frigid air sharpened my senses, but my heart felt dulled, weighed down by resentment. My brother and I worked quickly, arranging the crates carefully on the porch. I raised a fist and knocked loudly, the sound reverberating in the stillness. Then we ran, retreating to the shadows where we watched, breathless and hidden.

The porch light flickered on, and moments later, a small, jubilant voice shattered the quiet.

“WOW! Look at what Santa brought us!”

I froze, the warmth in the child’s voice catching me off guard.

“See? I told you he wouldn’t forget us!”

More voices joined in—children’s voices, bright with excitement. From behind the frosted window, shadows danced as little hands carried the boxes inside. For a moment, we watched in silence, the glow of the porch light casting long shadows over the snow. Then, just as suddenly as it had come on, the light clicked off, and the house was still again.

The world was silent, but inside me, something stirred. The bitterness I had carried so fiercely began to thaw, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth—a feeling I could neither name nor fully understand.

Back in the car, I stared out the window, my thoughts heavy. My parents spoke softly, their words weaving through the quiet as they reflected on the power of love—the kind of love that gives freely, without expectation or condition.

Their words took root in my heart, drawing me to a scripture I had heard many times but was only now beginning to grasp:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:43–44).

That night, those words became real to me.

I don’t remember a single gift I received that Christmas. But I will never forget the glow of the porch light, the sound of those children’s voices, and the quiet realization that love—when given freely—has the power to transform even the hardest of hearts.

Thirty-three years have passed since that snowy Christmas Eve, yet its lesson remains etched in my soul. Outside my family, no one ever knew who left those gifts. But the truth I learned that night endures: love is not earned; it is given. It is steady and unwavering, reaching across divides, bridging wounds, and softening hearts.

Charley Pride captured it beautifully:

“He tells me money doesn’t matter,

Nor the color of your skin.

We could stumble or even fall, and still get up again.

‘Cause it ain’t about the deeds, good or bad, that we have done—

All we have to do is love to be disciples of the Son.”

This Christmas, I hope we pause to notice the beauty in life’s simple moments—a quiet snowfall, a radiant sunset, the warmth of family. And I hope we choose love, especially when it’s hardest. For when we give love, even to those who have wronged us, we open our hearts to something far greater: peace, healing, and grace.

The toys and clothes of my childhood have long since disappeared, but the memories remain. Christmas was never about what we received; it was about who we became.

That snowy night in Castle Dale taught me this enduring truth: the heart of Christmas is not found in receiving but in giving—freely, generously, and with love.

Merry Christmas.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM